Touch Me
by Kuchiki-Baka
Summary: Itachi and Naruto, choose to share. What that means for the shared person, is for you to discover.


"N – Naruto..."

He heaved in another breath, searing his lungs. Every breath was as liquid hot as the shared moment. Every last brush against his skin, lurched his pale frame in every direction. It was a brilliantly lewd game, being played here. The hitch in what was almost continuously an impenetrable, solid tone, was vivid, as his ragged breaths and muffled moans filled the immediate space amongst his executioners.

"Nih—Nii..samah.."

His pale fingers gripped the white linens directly beneath his shaken body, as it was ravished. "N – Ni—" A shudder ripped through him. They were smiling. He knew they were. Against his trembling flesh, their lips curled in delight, basking in their unified triumph over him.

A moist warmth passed over his nipple, sending shockwaves when the teeth came down, brutally mocking his tender nerve endings with their presence but not the harsh touch he craved. All while delicate fingertips came up, creeping up on what was a growing declaration of peaked provocation, trekking casually against bare thighs, as if the aching, organ that sat between them wasn't there.

The raven couldn't see, who did what, as he was blinded by another affiliation, tied firmly over eyes that nearly dared to spill their contents. Hinted only by the occasional presence of silken ebony, and breathings of his lovers. It was anguish. Pure torture. A pair of porcelain lips silenced his moans, placing themselves gently over his own.

They toyed, offering the bare, and chaste, while rejecting the hunger and passion their victim so desperately longed for. He heard a chuckle, echo down his tongue, as it too, was mocked with a faint lick.

"Tch.."

Sunlight poured in through the thin gaps in the dark drapes, the next morning. The rays of gold being the only brightness in an otherwise, pitch black room. He, remaining hidden and covered beneath the endless layers of white sheet on his bed. A tuft of dark hair peeking out from an edge. He rustled under there, seemingly irate, as he was. How embarrassing. He couldn't make out the condition of his wrists, as he looked upon them from underneath his shadowed fortress of linen, but he was quite sure they were stained and discolored. The abuse he'd suffered seemed solely intent on making sure every glance in the mirror made him relive every moment.

"Otouto!"

The velvety tone, echoed from outside his dark sanctum. Penetrating through a sealed door. And his sheets. It came again, followed by a statement suggesting he might want to make haste as to maybe change the usual tradition of being late to class. He didn't move, in reply, but rather shifted to further accommodate his refusal to see the outside world. With all of his bruises, and marks of possession..After the sheer humiliation he'd been put through. "Oi!" It was a louder voice this time. Rugged, and boyish, far from the satin of moments past. "Teme—Get your ass down here, or we'll grab it and do it for you!"

Douche.

He hurled out a profanity, breaking the silence of his dark sanctuary in response, his still tingly casing moving on its own, almost in fear of what possible truth that was in the earlier threat. He sat up, the white linens slipping down as he shuffled to get out of bed. Skin clad, he took the sheets with him, using the fabric to hide a shame that was too much for a simple bed sheet to mask completely. Upon leaving his room, he was bombarded. They were standing closer than he had initially thought.

"Otouto." A smile came with the word, which reached down to caress what were possibly swollen and throbbing insides, warmly. Lovingly. "Ohayogozaimasu."

It was almost enough to forgive them.

Almost.

"Tch." The raven walked right past, suppressing a shudder when his shoulders swept past theirs, on both sides. The bathroom door was in sight. Barely a few strides away.

Did he make it?

Of course not.

It was redundant to be bound, by an arm belted firmly around a weakly covered midsection, and drawn back into the chest of the blonde. "Where'd chy'a think you're goin'?" An intelligent question. "The bathroom, you dipstick. Let me go." Hiss.

The other leaned over, taking it upon himself to ridicule him, with height even before he said anything. He was forced to breathe in the intoxication that was the scent of the soap used to wash the endless raven strands that brushed the top of his hand. When he looked down, to avoid those intense eyes, his chin came up, guided by a porcelain fingertip.

"Now, now, Otouto." Every word was enunciated, gloriously relishing the native tongue in which they were spoken. The man took his wrists, pulling them away from his chest, where he held the sheets against his body. He replied solely, now on the other who had that grip on his waist, as the white fabric slipped, showing off a pale chest, adorned with marks

"We don't use that kind of language here."


End file.
